


It's Your Pet

by bellygunnr



Series: take a left down memory lane onto calhoun street [3]
Category: Half-Life
Genre: Anger, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:48:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25317817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellygunnr/pseuds/bellygunnr
Summary: Barney Calhoun and Lamarr have a strenuous relationship at best, a nonexistent one at worst. The unorthodox pet brings out memories best left forgotten.
Relationships: Barney Calhoun & Alyx Vance
Series: take a left down memory lane onto calhoun street [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773649
Comments: 6
Kudos: 85





	It's Your Pet

“ _It’s your pet--_ ”

* * *

Deep within the bowels of City 17, in the basement of some dilapidated apartment building, Barney Calhoun stood in the center of the cavern, hair covered with the dust and grime of rotting wood and desiccated concrete. His eyes flickered all along the shrouded perimeter, rapidly picking out the differences between tarp-covered supplies and sleeping headcrabs, confirming safety peeking around every corner and letting Alyx Vance watch his back. When this room was deemed alright, void of enemies and creepy-crawlies, they moved on to the second compartment, breathing in mildew, rot, and dust through unmasked mouths. Rubble crunched underfoot, echoing in the silence of their bated breaths.

A gun in hand, eyes straining in the dark, make a signal for light.

Alyx’s flash light answered immediately, sweeping the cluttered contents of the room with a methodical, practiced pattern. The caution does not go unpaid-- the glint of dark, bristling hairs flashes up beneath the beam, and Barney fires three shots in quick succession at the spindly parasite that leaps out of the dark. With a dying shriek, the headcrab hits the ground with a wet thud, inert.

“Good shot, Barney! Geez, this place must have been abandoned for awhile for Poison Headcrabs to move in, huh?” Alyx says, voice hushed but enthusiastic. “Kinda glad the tenants didn’t choose this particular upgrade, though.”

Barney huffs a laugh through his nose, the dark humor not lost on him. Their exploration of this place had not gone without conflict-- zombies had occupied the lobby in blind, hungry droves, clad in disintegrating Civilian duds. His ammo belt was two mags lighter as a reminder.

Alyx finishes her cursory flashlight scan, the room turning up nothing. Barney’s gut wasn’t wriggling, either, so he steps inside, eyes switching back and forth to pick out any potential entryways, doors, or other errant holes. Finally satisfied, his shoulders shed a few centimeters of tension.

“We’ll start back here. Your father’s lookin’ for some odd tools, which I trust you know what they look like? I’m gonna hunt down the usual,” Barney says, cutting a look at his friend-- niece, whatever.

“Yup!” Alyx replies, popping the ‘p.’ “I’ll throw anything of interest your way, too.”

With that mutual assent, they start to search, starting along the walls of the room to eventually work their way to the center. Crates and boxes covered in foreign lettering crowded the space, piled up around a rusted-out furnace and obscuring a fuse box. Barney braces his hand against the furnace’s metal carapace so he can use the rest of his body to free a wedged crate, grimacing when his hand goes right through the rusted surface.

Thankfully, the CP armor padding his arms and hands saved him from the bite of sharp, oxidized steel, allowing him to pull away with only a quiet curse. He shakes off the disgruntlement to fish out his crowbar and set to work. Damp wood and old, tired nails give easily under the combined might of Barney and controlled leverage, revealing rows of mucky plastic packaging.

On the opposite end of the room, Alyx is also cracking open crates or shoving them aside to crawl into enclosed spaces, determined to find something of rarer, greater use. Her gloved hands grasp the dust-encrusted dome of a toolbox, clearly laden with tools if its weight was anything to go by. Its bottom screeched unpleasantly against the floor as she dragged it into the open. She broke open the latches when they did not give easily, rusted shut.

“I think this was a stronghold from the Combine,” Alyx says, verbalizing her mental appraisal of the building. “But it got shelled by headcrabs.”

“That’s what I heard,” Barney replies, a bit breathless from exertion. “From some other rebels, anyway. It’s how I heard about this place.”

They fall back into silence, the basement consumed by sounds of crackling wood and shifting metal. Opened crates are arranged into a pattern of value, from food all the way to batteries. Restrained excitement buzzed beneath the skins of both Barney and Alyx.

It had been awhile since anyone had struck a cache like this. Whatever this place had been before, it had probably done its job well, powered and protected by rebels as it was. There was something to be said of humanity’s tenacity-- but Barney was neither eloquent enough, nor well-read enough, to say what it was.

Alyx even less so, though she was the burning, quintessential example of tenaciousness. He watches her now, mind buzzing at the back of his skull with the strain of hypervigilance, unable to rest despite giving his wearied muscles time to breathe. His age was getting to him, compounded by the constant touch-and-go his lifestyle demanded of him. It didn’t help that the damp basement was making old injuries ache, a thrumming reminder that one day, he’d be too slow, nixed by pain and scar tissue.

But that was a long way off, yet. And Barney Calhoun would always go down fighting.

With that in mind, he turns away from Alyx, rummaging through the next box of stuff. Clothes of varying style, bright colors and irregular patterns, stared back at him. Shirts and jeans and underwear-- hell, as he dug deeper, mixing up the contents, he even found bras.

He could already think of several rebels who’d care for that find. Satisfied, he starts to move to the next box, but freezes as something hits the floor behind him.

“Barney!” Alyx shouts, something clattering to pieces behind her as she lunges.

A headcrab launches itself from the safety of the rotten beams of wood making up the ceiling, its curved, deadly talons extended for Barney’s exposed skull. Horror doesn’t even have time to freeze his blood or stop his heart by the time its fleshy, bulbous body is wrapped around his head, talons searching for purchase in his face and neck. Snipping, searching keratin nip incessantly, rapidly, through his hair, seeking flesh--

Yet, just as quickly as it began, the headcrab is grabbed and thrown to the ground, towered over by one Alyx Vance. Its life is quickly ended by savage, panic-induced stomps, its innards breaking through its taut flesh on impact. A sour smell permeates from it, overpowering the general scent of dust and decay.

Barney, despite his best efforts, collapses into a heap on the floor, trembling violently. Bleed weeps freely from a slice across his cheek. From his neck, up to the back of his head, blood also leaks in a hot stream, staining the collar of his armor.

* * *

“– _the freakin’ headhumper!_ ”

Lamarr the headcrab leaps down from her perch atop the HEV suit’s charging bay, aimed with primal precision for Barney’s head. She screams as her forelegs are captured, nearly crushed, in Barney’s hands, then screams again when her backside collides with the floor. For a moment, she lays utterly still and paralyzed, winded by the counterattack.

Above her, Barney pants, eyes glazed over with panic but bright with rage. His hands grip his head, fingers running through his hair with a savageness meant to bring him back to earth. Obscenities leak from his mouth so fast that neither Gordon or Alyx can understand him.

Gordon watches, startled into silence, as the headcrab finally finds its feet and skitters away, cowed into meekness.

“Well, that was rather harsh, don’t you think?” Dr. Kleiner says after a moment, looking at Barney with something like reserved disdain in his eyes. “She hasn’t done anything wrong, you know. And she’s debeaked! No matter what she tries, she can’t hurt you.”

“No offense, Doc,” Barney says venomously, lip curled into a snarl, “but I really don’t give a shit.”

The HEV bay opens up with a happy chime. Barney stalks out of the room immediately after, jaw set and eyes unseeing, headed for some destination that Gordon couldn’t know-- but desperately wants to know.

But he’s being pushed forward with the metaphorical cattle prod that is Kleiner’s voice, laced with briskness and urgency, so he starts the arduous process of putting on the suit while Alyx slips away behind him. He doesn’t hear the thud of something being thrown through the robotic chatter of his suit, unchanged despite the years.

* * *

“Uncle Barn? You alright?”

It’s more of a closet than a room that Alyx follows Barney into. It’s empty, save for some forgotten odds and ends, allowing them enough room to stand several inches apart. She presses her back against the further wall, just to maximize the space between them.

“I’m-- I-- I’ll be alright, Alyx,” Barney stammers out, resting his head against the wall. His arms are folded bonelessly into his lap, hands open and slack. “Just… been awhile. Didn’t mean to snap like that.”

“It scared me, too,” she says gently. “Want to play cards?”

She offers him a smile while fishing out a deck of cards from her jacket. The box is well-loved, tattered on the corners from use, still equipped with a full suit.

Barney chuckles, pushing himself upright. “Yeah, I’d like that. Go fish?”

**Author's Note:**

> this was written after like. processing the idea through the conversations of many, many people, so shout out to these venerable folks that I love so much. 
> 
> Calhoun is very easy to throw angst at, isn't he?


End file.
